


Whispers in the Dark

by Cinnamon1895



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamon1895/pseuds/Cinnamon1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is tired of listening to John being tormented by memories of the war, and finds a way to protect his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Based of a prompt from the lovely mmarymorastan.tumblr.com. This can be read as pre-Johnlock, or just affectionate bros. Whatever makes you happy.

                Sherlock stood motionless outside the army doctor’s bedroom door, hardly even breathing for fear of being heard. Behind the door, his friend was trapped in his dreams, trapped in the war. John thought he was discreet, he thought Sherlock didn’t hear him tossing and turning every night, begging at invisible assailants and waking up in tears. Sherlock may not be sentimental, but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it. He knew John still hadn’t escaped the demons of war, but what could he do? He had protected his doctor from cruel words and sniper’s gazes, but how could he protect him from his own mind? From memories so strong and insistent, never giving him a night’s peace? He ran his fingers lightly over the doorknob, grounding himself with the coolness of the metal.

                Really, he had two options. He could choose his usual route, go back down stairs and drown out the noise with his violin. Or he could try and provide comfort. But that could be dangerous. How would John, always so irritably emphasizing the boundaries of their friendship, react to Sherlock entering his room while he slept, regardless of his intentions?

                “No…no..please no..”

                Sherlock gripped the doorknob tightly, feeling the weight of John’s fear weighing him down. He felt as if he were cemented in place, like he had no control over his body.

                And that simply wouldn’t do.

                With new determination, he turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door. On the other side, John was a messy tangle of sheets and sweat and limbs. Swallowing what shyness he felt, Sherlock walked over to the bed and sat down carefully, sure to remain far enough to be out of John’s reach should he lash out.

                “John.” He said quietly, letting the sound hover for a moment. “John, wake up. You’re dreaming.” He bit his lip, worried at the lack of a reaction from John who showed no signs of waking up. He leaned over and switched the lamp on. After a moment’s hesitation, he laid the very tips of his fingers on John’s arm. “John, you must wake up. It’s imperative that you wake up.” Still no sign of waking, but the detective noticed that John seemed to relax a bit at the sound of his voice. Sherlock watched him dream for a few moments, taking in the way his eyes moved under closed lids, and the way his jaw worked itself as if he wanted to shout. Gingerly, Sherlock climbed over him to the small unoccupied space next to the wall. He scooted so that he was laying with his head next to John’s wounded shoulder, keeping any contact as minimal as possible as to not alarm him. “John,” he said quietly, “When you wake, we have many things to accomplish.”

                For the next few hours, Sherlock just talked. Lips just barely brushing skin, he talked about cases, experiments, the general lack of milk in the flat. He talked about anything and everything, whispered words that crawled over the doctor’s skin, writing promises and fairy tales into the wounded flesh. And slowly, John’s tense muscles began to relax and his mind began to quiet as the familiar bite of his flatmate’s voice grounded him, brought him back to his bed in Baker Street and brought him peace. 


End file.
